The Things You'll Say in the Morning
by eleni459
Summary: Post 1897: Tim reflects on his resent bouts with good and bad luck with the possessed Charity Trask.


Disclaimer: All Dark Shadows characters and locations are property of Dan Curtis Productions

Title: The Things You'll Say in the Morning

Parts: 1 or 1

Genre: General

Characters: Tim Shaw and Charity Trask possessed by Pansy Faye

If you wanted to have a "good time" in Collinsport, you were forced to patronize the Blue Whale, the town's only frivolous establishment.  Of course, if you were able to find a person inside that was not lonely, depressed, murderous, or mad, you deserved an award.  Timothy Shaw would have eagerly paid up.  His life had grown dull over the last few months, leaving a large empty space in his mind aching to be filled by some kind of excitement.  His days and nights now centered on the dubious pleasures of the Blue Whale: bourbon, women, and song.  But even these things had lost much of their tingle, leaving Tim feeling numb as he walked through the motions of being a satisfied customer.  He seemed to enjoy the few hours he spent at his room more every day, relishing the sparse moments of sleep he maintained and the daily bath that failed to wash away his crimes.

More than anything, Tim felt incredibly alone.  He found himself nearly desolated in a sea of memories that were at once horrific and unavoidable.  If only he had someone to confide in!   Amanda had fled town earlier, leaving behind a horrendous "Dear Tim" note and a broach he managed to lose a short time after receiving it.  To think, he had pulled her out of the gutter to receive such thanks!  He recently heard that Quentin had taken off after her.  Tim knew what their future would entail; no one deserved such a fate more than those superficial sluts did.  He wished them luck.  On the same note, Charles Tate had left town as well, although Tim doubted that Amanda's creator was also in search of her.  Like Tim, Charles had lost a dark mentor of sorts in the late Count Andreas Petofi.  The Count had once told him that it was not easy task to kill a 150-year-old man; apparently, a house fire was all it took to destroy a century and a half life of evil.  But what as the old saying—fire purifies?

But those people were the contacts of his "new life."  The relics of his past were just hard to find.  Worthington Hall was but a distant memory by now, especially in light of the "disappearance" of the "honorable" Reverend Gregory Trask.  Just thinking of his former taskmaster's fate brought a smile to Tim's lips.  Mr. and Mrs. Trask were both dead and he had the debatable privilege of participating in both of their murders.  Occasionally, he felt the tendrils of guilt wrap around his heart but time and not so fond memories gratefully loosened their hold on his conscience.  How could he pity them when they had slowly been killing him…and Rachel?  She was also dead, laid waste to by Collinwood's venerable mistress, Mrs. Judith Collins Trask.  When he had first seen the damage she had caused, he hated her with a passion he had rarely, if ever, felt.  Yet, he found that he couldn't hate Judith forever, especially not when she paid him so handsomely to help dispose of her husband.  His changed view of Judith helped him understand his muddled feelings toward his late friend.  He grew to understand that his idolized view of Rachel was a product of nostalgia and not romantic love.  He and Rachel would have never worked out.  Her naïve purity would have refused to mesh with his tarnished, practically nonexistent innocence.  It had dwindled so far that only the dock girls could recognize it.  "You may drink like a sailor and try to act like some big bad man," one had told him, "but your face gives you away.  Part of you will always be a little boy."  He would have been angry with her had it not been true.

Of all the people who had had any bonds with him, only one remained.  And as she walked through the door into the Blue Whale, Tim couldn't help but reflect on her astonishing change.  She noticed him immediately, and, with the largest smile possibly, ran up to his table.  " 'allo, luv.  It's been ages."

"So it has…Pansy.  So it has."

Tim tried not to stare at her, but it seemed impossible not to gawk.  Charity Trask, or Pansy Faye (as she preferred that name at this point in her life), looked nothing like the prudish young woman to whom he had once been engaged.  The spirit of a Cockney performer, an experienced woman who dressed tackily, spoke her mind, and tried the patience of most who came into contact with her, had replaced that girl.  Tim didn't know when the possession took place, although he suspected that it happened during his brief sojourn to New York.  All he knew was that when he returned to town, he saw that a feather boa and mounds of hair and rouge had overtaken the once sparse, drab wardrobe of Charity Trask.  He couldn't complain.  The new girl interested him much more than the old one.

"What brings you here at this hour?" he asked softly.

"Is the bar open?"

"No.  The proprietor is…busy."

Both looked up just in time to watch a disheveled woman creep out of a back room.  The woman did her best to straighten her hems as she moved, not bothering to look at either Tim or Pansy as she walked out the door.  They both started to speak but went silent when they heard the lock click.  "So I guess he ain't gonna open up."  Pansy marched off toward the bar, asking, "What 'cha want, luv?  It's on the 'ouse."

"Do you really think that's such a good idea?"

"Oh, I don't care, Tim.  I need somethin' t' calm me nerves."  Pansy casually grabbed a bottle from beneath the bar, along with two small glasses, and sauntered back to the table.  She struggled a moment with the cork before it flew into her palm.  "You'll be drinkin' what I do," she said as she poured.  "I 'ope you don't mind."

"Pansy, is this really necessary?" asked Tim as he accepted the nearly full glass.  "Even I go home once and awhile.  I suggest you do the same."

" 'ome?  Whatta joke!"  Pansy drank hers down in one long gulp, amazing Tim by the way she inhaled her whisky.  "It may surprise you to know that I ain't got a 'ome anymore!" she wailed as she refilled her glass. 

"When did this happen?"

"A few 'ours ago.  I walked back to me apartment after the show to find all me things sittin' in the road.  The man said I 'adn't paid rent.  O' course I 'ad, but 'e wouldn't listen to none of it.  So I've spent most of the mornin' placin' me things at a friend's 'ouse.  I couldn't sit around with 'em and mope, so I decided to come 'ere."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Pansy.  Surely you have somewhere else to stay?"

"I don't think so.  I don't want to stay with me friends and I refuse to go back to Collinwood.  Everyone I liked left!  No more Barnabas, Quentin…"

Just the mention of THAT name made him shrink back into his seat.  One couldn't go anywhere in Collinsport without the specter of Quentin Collins rearing its sarcastic head.  "It's all for the best, believe me," he said as he sipped at the drink.

"Jealous?"

"No!"

"You can't expect me to believe that," chided Pansy playfully.  She refreshed both her and Tim's drinks before switching to a chair closer to his.  "Tell Pansy Faye 'bout it.  I won't tell a soul."

Tim glanced between Pansy and his drink, silently wondering how he had gotten himself into this situation.  He couldn't tell this girl about his feelings…especially about this.  However, he figured that it could cleanse him of the emotions if he let them out.  Besides, Pansy was just as alone as he was.  She didn't have anyone to tell.  Tim took a swift swig from his drink and said, "He stole my girl."

"Amanda 'arris?"  He nodded.  Pansy smiled and placed her hand on his shoulder, saying, "Well, that's nothing to be sad 'bout.  You didn't really lose anything!"

"How can you say that?  I…I felt for her!"

"Ah, listen to what 'cha said.  You said that you 'felt' for 'er.  You didn't say you luved 'er and I wouldn't believe you if you said you did."  Pansy turned back to her drink and said, "I don't see what any of you men saw in that lady.  She was so…dull."

"You didn't know her," insisted Tim, his eyes now diverted from his companion.

"Then tell me about 'er, luv!  What was she like?  What made 'er an interesting person?"

"Well she…she…now she was…I don't know.  I mean, there has to be something that drew me to her."

"Did you think 'er beautiful?"

"She was amazingly beautiful."

"I don't understand it," said Pansy.  "Oh, she was very pretty but she wasn't the end all.  She was forgettably beautiful.  'er face 'ad no character, none at all."

"You don't understand."  Tim finished off his drink, hoping that the alcohol would help refresh his memory of his former lover.  "Ah, I've got it!  She was mysterious.  She didn't know her past."

Pansy Faye laughed uproariously at this, nearly knocking over her chair as she carelessly leaned back in it.  "She didn't know 'er past because she probably didn't 'ave one, luv!  You know what me and the other girls call a girl without a past?  A bore."

"She was unfortunate," sulked Tim.

"I'd say so.  To not 'ave a past means to 'ave not lived a life."  Pansy sighed and wrapped her arms around Tim's shoulders and rested her cheek on his nearest arm.  "Ah, you couldn't 'ave found joy with 'er.  People like you and me 'ave lived.  She would've bored you to tears in the end."

Tim shifted uneasily in her grip as his mind ran over his every encounter with Amanda, his fingers absently fondling the rim of his glass while looking for connections.  In a way, Pansy was right: Amanda wasn't the most interesting person.  Like a child or animal, she liked "shiny things," staring at baubles of gold and silver as if they were the most interesting things in the world.  As much as she enjoyed denying it, Amanda was both shallow and dull.  She was like a pretty piece of stationary, waiting to be used by whomever that happened to by it because it had no real purpose outside of lying on a desk and looking nice.  "Maybe you're right…thank you, Pansy.  You were correct to point all of those things out to me."

"Don't say that.  You'll embarrass me."  She pulled away, careful to keep her eyes averted from his.  She lazily ran a finger around the rim of her glass, absently staring into the amber liquid as she bit her bottom lip.  "I like you, Tim.  I didn't always, but I kinda do now.  At first, you struck me as a money grubbin' slime, but now, I've seen somethin' else there.  It's like I knew you before all this madness."

Tim nearly choked on his drink.  Was she remembering her days as Charity?  Sure, she could almost sense the nice, good with children Tim.  That was fine, but what would happen if she remembered the Tim who murdered her mother?  Would she then wonder as to why her father had disappeared?  "Well, that's just not possible.  It took quite awhile for the two of us to meet," added Tim in a mildly anxious voice. 

"Oh, I know, but it would explain a few things, wouldn't it?"  Pansy perked up slightly as she said, "Maybe we met in a past life!"

"Do you really believe in that garbage?"

"In a way.  I think the soul lives on until its mission is finished.  Once it's done, it goes up to God.  Simple as that."

Tim snorted as he turned his attention back to his drink.  "I can't believe that someone as worldly as you can still believe in God."

"So I detect bitterness?"  Tim didn't answer.  "Well, what broke you, luv?"

"You don't want to know."  The look on her face said otherwise.  Tim finished off his drink before answering.  "Reverend Trask."

"See, there's your problem.  I met your so called "reverend," and believe me, there ain't no God in a man like Trask.  'e looks at everything with lust in 'is eyes.  There ain't nothing wrong with lust, mind you, but 'e makes it seem dirty, unreal.  All 'e takes into account is 'is own needs. No one else matters to a man like 'im.  'e is no man of God."

Tim couldn't argue.  He remembered the radical theory that had been shoved down his throat from a young age, teaching him to suppress his emotions, libido, and fears or face hellfire with the likes of murders and rapists.  If you didn't fall in line, you faced being beaten until you decided to tow the cord again.  Tim had been beaten many times.  It seemed that he couldn't figure out how to repress his instincts that told him that Trask was wrong.  Beatings were done with some sort of switch, leaving long, wispy scars on his back once they healed.  He knew from the stories of the other boys that he had received some the worst whippings of all the male students.  Few others carried the same scars.  Yet now matter how many beatings he received, Tim knew that he had been lucky.  The bruises he wore paled in comparison to the mental and physical wounds that the likes of Rachel Drummond took. 

After their private study sessions were discovered, Trask slapped Tim around before throwing him into the prayer closet located in a vacated classroom.  Rachel he dragged from the room and took her to another part of Worthington Hall as she fought him with all her might.  Her screams haunted Tim's dreams years later, constantly awakening him in a cold, uneven sweat as he tried to contain his own rising cries.  That night, he prayed for her, begging God to spare his friend from Trask's worst punishments.  The next morning, Tim discovered that his prayers had been for naught.  Rachel showed him the bruises on her arms and told him of how similar ones marred her torso and legs.  She also hinted at other activities, although she seemed too ashamed to elaborate beyond the refrain "It was so horrid."  It took many years for the provincial Tim to realize that Reverend Trask had raped her.  His prayers had not stopped the desecration of his best friends' body by a supposed man of the lord.  He couldn't understand how any deity would allow its advocates to act in such a way without being rebuked.  This apparent apathy broke what had remained of Tim's faith and left him with the cynicism he had stowed away until events of the last year brought his coarser nature to the forefront. 

Pansy noticed that Tim had drifted off and she shook him, saying, " 'ey!  Don't worry 'bout it.  You can't let that kinda thing bring you down.  They do the same things to me.  People call me the worst names and treat me as if they own me.  It ain't easy to rise above, luv, but it can be done."

"I had no idea you went through this sort of thing.  Why don't you tell anyone?"

"Ah, why would anyone listen to a girl like Pansy Faye?" she asked sadly.

"People come to listen to you every night!  Everyone loves you here," insisted Tim.

"Bah!  They just like to stare and grab at me assets!  I would leave 'ere if I could."

"Then do so!"  Tim shifted toward Pansy and wrapped his arm around her.  She leaned up against him, resting her head in the crook of his arm.  She looked so fragile, vulnerable.  Tim knew that underneath her heavy make-up hid a whimsically attractive face.  Even when she had been Charity, he had thought her lovely.  Her life had been no easier than his.  On numerous occasions, he witnessed Reverend Trask strike his daughter for her own apparent lapses in faith or judgement.  She would take these slaps and internalize them, becoming tougher with each progressive hit.  What kind of person would she have been without such harsh treatment?  She was just as much the victim as he or Rachel had been.  "You need to leave Collinsport behind, move on to the city, and build a real life for yourself.  This place is too small for you."

"I ain't gonna argue with you there.  I wouldn't be 'ere if I 'adn't met Carl."  Pansy drifted off a moment, shifting into a vacant silence only to announce her return with a high-pitched giggle.  "Oh Carl," she murmured sweetly. "You were the best of 'em all.  Better than all those other 'igh and mighty Collinses in that 'ouse."  She turned to Tim, tears visibly beginning to rise into her eyes, and said, "You can't imagine 'ow much I miss 'im.  A ray of light, 'e was."

"I'm sure."

Pansy brightened a bit and asked, "Did you ever meet Carl?  It's not somethin' you can lie 'bout.  'e ain't one of those people you easily forget."

"No, of course not."  Tim remembered Carl well.  How could he forget the evening they had spent in the Old House waiting for the police?  Carl had stood back silently as Tim related Trask's lie to the portly constable.  He didn't know how believable he had appeared to those men.  His eyes would shift between the constable and the sofa, watching as another man superficially examined Rachel's Drummond's dead body.  When the man's hand went for the wounds in her chest, Tim wanted to stop him.  How dare he lay a hand on her precious form!  She was pure and kind.  What were they but monsters that had to stare at the worst the world had to dish out.  They could not be allowed to sully her body, even in death.  She was better off wherever she had gone. 

When the men left, taking Rachel with them, Carl asked him about Tim's relationship to her.  For the first time, he unloaded it all onto this man, allowing years of pain to spill out of his tired body as a man who didn't know him listened on.  Although Tim hadn't told Carl about the events of that night, he knew that Rachel had died at another hand.  How did he know?  Why…Pansy Faye's disappearance had gone unsolved.  Carl thought they were connected.  Tim hadn't thought so until he saw the ghost of the English woman standing in the drawing room.  She looked like no one he had seen before (let alone her recent acquisition).  She said little but she made a big impression.  Once Carl learned that Tim had seen her, he spent a good deal of night searching the house for her, insisting that his fiancée was waiting to be found.  Whatever their relationship had been, he had loved Ms Pansy Faye.  "He talked about you," Tim finally said.  "He loved you very dearly."

"Ah, you didn't 'ave to tell me that," said Pansy giddily, "but thank you anyway.  It's always good to 'ear a little bit about me Carl."

Tim smiled.  He was surprised at the way her face lit up at just the mention of Carl Collins.  She really loved him.  The concept of love seemed foreign to Tim.  He knew of attachment.  His affinities for Rachel and Amanda had been intense.  Their absences left him feeling lost, but he realized that he didn't care about who they were as much as what they gave to him.  Rachel had been virtue and light while Amanda represented worldliness and sex.  The loss of both only meant losing the saint and the slut; solace and companionship were absent from the start.  Technically, he had nothing to miss.  "I suppose we all have something to run from," he whispered softly.  "It's always so disappointing when you realize that life isn't what you thought it was going to be when you were younger."

"What did you think it was gonna be?" asked Pansy.

"Well no offense to you, but THIS—bars, whores, and booze—was not supposed to be my life.  But the more I think about it, the more I realize that the life before this one wasn't any better.  I would be teaching at the awful school, watching the children be tortured the way I was without having any conceivable way to stop their suffering from happening.  And I would have been married to this woman who would uphold those standards, no matter how much she internally may have hated them."

"Did she 'ate 'em?" she inquired.

"Who knows?  No one ever really knew the workings of her mind.  She was always so conservative and prim, but I think she, like all of us, had something deep inside her that wanted to break free from the confines and become a different person."

Pansy smiled and refilled both of their glasses.  "Well then, a toast to your mystery woman: may she 'ave found that new life!"

"Oh, I'm sure she already has!" 

Tim matched Pansy in drinking speed, both slamming their glasses down at the exact moment the other did.  To the drunken duo, it was the funniest thing that had happened all night.  Neither could contain their amusement and began they giggle madly.  Pansy rose from her seat only to trip a few moments later, falling into Tim's lap as both continued to titter.  "Pansy dear, do you want to return with me to my room at the Collinsport Inn?"

"What'll we do there?"

"We'll drink expensive bourbon, verbally rake our Collins compatriots over the coals, and do whatever that mind of yours can come up with"

"Well then, luv, I've got a few things I'd like to do with you," purred Pansy, her face slowly inching closer to his.

"Really?"  Tim could barely keep from smirking as he lowered his lips toward the girl beneath him, whispering, "What did you have in mind?"

"See, I'd like to…" murmured Pansy, her voice trailing off as her mouth met his, parting her lips almost immediately to receive his tongue.  Her hands drifted up into his hair, messing it a bit before their kiss subsided.  She pointed to his head once she regained her breath, saying, "I knew it!"

"Huh?"

"You've got such nice 'air, luv!  You're much too young to 'ave a comb-over…much too young."

Tim rubbed his eyes, trying his best to understand a situation that just became a little weird.  "So you're saying that you just want to get me home so that you can fix up my hair?"

"That…and other things, Tim, things that those girls on the docks couldn't do with years of practice!  Now come on!" she chided as she rose to her feet.  "It's almost daybreak.  I wanna get a little sleep in before we start."

Tim lazily offered Pansy his hand, allowing her to help him from the chair.  He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, feeling slightly buoyed up as she draped her own arm behind his back.  He almost stopped himself as they made their way toward the door.  Was he really about to take Charity Trask back to his room?!  He had surely wanted to the moment her realized she went through puberty; her haughty attitude had quickly put an end to that fantasy, however.  But Pansy was much different.  Just talking to her over the last hour had left Tim feeling invigorated and positive.  He really liked her.  And as he felt Pansy hand firmly grasp onto his ass, he knew that he would like her better before they were done.  They had a lot more talking to do.


End file.
